A Song for the Wretched and Wrecked
by jadeddiva
Summary: He wishes to chart a new course in a different direction, leaving Elizabeth in his wake but he fears that impossible. Standard AUpiece “What if Elizabeth Married Norrington” type dribble.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: Written months ago and finally posted. Trying to come to gripes with seventeenth century constructions of gender, women, and sexuality, I came up with this. Told in two parts, Norrington's POV first. Set directly after the first movie. Thanks to Aegle for the magnificent beta._

* * *

**A Song for the Wretched and Wrecked, Part I**

The happy couple, locked in an embrace, are silhouetted against the brilliant Caribbean sky, and for the first time since he has come here, James Norrington wishes he were home in gloomy England.

That night, there is gossip along the streets of Port Royal and he shuts himself up in his office. He drinks alone, the alcohol burning its way down the back of his throat and bringing warmth to his otherwise dead body. The more he lingers on it, the loss of Elizabeth becomes more and more painful until he realizes that it is morning, he is intoxicated, and the_ Dauntless_ is leaving in a few hours to find the _Black Pearl_ with himself at the helm.

He is a good sailor, and pushes it out of his mind as best he can. There are other women in Port Royal. There are other horizons in this vast world to fix his compass towards.

…

There are calm, lovely (lonely) days and then there is a storm and tremendous losses of life. His crew is a mere ghost of what it once was, and he knows that he will bear the brunt of the punishment and rightly so. He deserves it for chasing a pirate as far as he did. He shouldn't have – should have allowed him to get away, but he didn't and now, they are heading back to Port Royal.

He sits in his cabin at night, wondering if falling into the depths of the sea and hoping to be fortunate enough to drown is an acceptable course of action. He decides against it; if he took his own life, people would assume he was ashamed by his mistakes. In reality, he is ready to accept full responsibility, because that is what gentlemen do and he considers himself a gentleman.

In reality, he does not want to see Elizabeth again.

At night, he allows his mind to drift and revel in the feelings of complete anguish that overtake him (he never knew he could be so melodramatic before all this had passed). The loss of his men seems like nothing compared to how he still feels about Elizabeth's rejection. He thinks of the house that has been built and decorated in his absence, the one he had hoped to make a home with a wife and children and a _family_, something he coveted dearly. He imagines her as his wife, spirited and nowhere near as boring as the other women in Port Royal. He thinks of her in candlelight, in moonlight and sunlight and how he ached to touch and taste inches of her skin hidden by those voluminous dresses.

He wishes to chart a new course in a different direction, leaving Elizabeth in his wake, but he fears that impossible. She will linger on, forever, the epitome of his failures and lost hopes.

…

The nightmare is over.

His resignation, ready on the tip of his tongue and quill, is halted by a visit from the governor with a plea for him to stay on, an assurance he will smooth things over, and a promise.

"Childish infatuation," the Governor says. "She has seen the error of her ways."

"Has she now?" James asks, breaking decorum completely. He apologizes, saying "Forgive me, sir, but I do not think I can deal with another broken promise." He is tired of these flirtations with happiness; he prefers his disappointment swift and furious.

"Young Mr. Turner left for sea six months ago," Swann says. "And she has reconsidered your offer, and if you will have her –"

The rest of his speech is drowned out by the sudden noise of Norrington's heart, beating fast in his chest. Perhaps this has not been failure. Perhaps he has something to show for his efforts after all.

The taste of victory is bitter in his mouth.

He goes to dinner at the Swanns' house, and watches Elizabeth during dinner. She has grown thinner, paler. Afterwards, they talk about his offer. He pretends not to hurt when she flinches at his touch.

…

Their wedding is a quiet affair, considering the participants. They are married in church, with a reception at the Governor's house. There is wine flowing freely, the finest cuts of meat, and numerous confections made with far too much sugar (a luxury taken for granted, one would think).

This is not what the Governor wanted, but exactly what the couple did. James cannot stand any public fuss over the nuptials, the grief from his failed voyage still heavy in his heart. He can only speculate that this is not what she wanted as a little girl, the complete opposite of her hopes and dreams, and making it a large celebration would only mock her.

He could not agree more.

It pains him in ways he cannot describeto think that this is a marriage of convenience. True, he gains a companion, and she keeps the life she's always had in the uppermost stratosphere of society. She keeps her servants and her gowns, and does not suffer from any lack of fortune as the governor, with his impressive clout, has secured James' station for a good many years to come.

While a gentleman cares about society, a man merely wishes some sort of affection from the companion he takes for life – to love and be loved, maybe, a sense of knowing that despite his failings in life, he will be cared for regardless. James, while having everything else, does not have this.

Elizabeth is beautiful, full of life and wit and so very interesting that James knows he will not bore while he learns everything about her. But she does not love him, she still loves Turner, and as comforting as the presence of a wife may be, none of the things that he really wants out of this life he has, nor will he ever have, and so the gods mock him.

They are taken by carriage to their new house, which he admits is a fine house. Elizabeth is impressed, remarking on the colors of wallpaper and furniture and the view from the dining room enthusiastically. She loves the concept of the garden, the friendliness of the servants, and the parlor she may call her own.

Her trunks have been moved to one of the two master bedrooms upstairs, and as she goes to inspect her clothes, he changes out of his stiff woolen uniform and wig and thinks about the next step which frightens him as much as it (must) her.

He comes to her later and is surprised to find that she is still awake. She is wearing only a dressing gown and shift, and her hair falls around her shoulders in a very becoming manner. He says some things he can't remember –he might be mumbling about food or other things – and then she, with the most charming blush, talks about wedding nights and marriage beds and i oh /i perhaps –

She lets him kiss her, lets him touch her and draw her slowly into the larger room, with the larger bed. She is so small in his hands, so small pressed against him, and so very nervous. She is not the only one.

When he kisses her neck, she moans. He wants so badly to see all that is Elizabeth, all that he's dreamed of, but he is terrified he will frighten her. The roll of her hips against his fills his mind and then, he merely wants to be inside her, to finish this and feel something other than the lingering doubt that throbs at the base of his skull.

He is no saint; he has been with women before, learned tricks to satisfy each and every one of them and will use them to satisfy Elizabeth tonight. She gasps and he moans and it's over far too soon, because this is _Elizabeth_ and he is lost.

When their breathing stills, he brushes a kiss against her head and she rolls away, bringing the doubt and pain back to take residence in his chest. He waits until he thinks she's sleeping, then leaves.

He sits at the window in his study and, for the second time in his adult life and the second time in three months, cries.

…

He has given her everything that she could possibly want, and has demanded only one thing: they share the large bed that he had made especially for this house. He tells her he won't ask anything in that bed, and looks away when he says he's terrified of spending the night alone. He hopes her presence will stave off the nightmares, but he cannot be sure.

At least, he thinks, he was honest with her; the remarks wins him a sympathetic smile as she reaches across the table to grasp his hand. It is so small in his, and he wonders how a creature so tiny could control him, body and soul.

…

One night, they return home from a fancy party.

Elizabeth looks lovely and the wine is singing in his veins and he cannot help but pull her towards him and kiss her. Her lips are warm and she opens them to him, responding to his kiss and then, he remembers.

She does not want this, does not want him, is only trying to be a good wife and is breaking his heart without knowing.

Reluctantly, he breaks the kiss and turns away, trying not to notice that she is breathless. He goes to his study and pours himself something to drink but chooses instead to hurl the glass at the wall. The alcohol stains the paint, the crystal shards decorate the floor, and he thinks this room has never felt more welcoming than it does now.

"Why did you stop?" Elizabeth asks the next morning at breakfast.

He looks up from his letters, confused

"Beg pardon?" he asks.

"Why did you stop," she pauses, looking down, "stop kissing me, last night?"

Oh. He wonders how to respond and says the first thing that comes to mind. Thankfully, it is honest.

"You're my wife, Elizabeth, but I will not ask you for anything I do not believe you wish to give," he says. His jaw is tense and his stomach full, waiting for her answer.

"I understand," she says. He finishes his tea and folds the letters before putting them into his pocket. He does not look at her when he leaves.

That night, he is surprised to feel her breath on his neck as her hand wraps around his chest. He can feel every inch of her pressed into his back and he feels guilty the instant reactions of his traitorous body. He closes his eyes, feigning sleep but then - kisses - and he is torn between responding or ignoring her.

When her hand strays below his waist, the latter option is no longer valid and turns and takes her in his arms, kissing her breathless and enjoying the gasps and whimpers from her swollen lips.

They have been married for almost one month but this is the second time they do this, this time slipping clothes off gently. Her body, pressed beneath him, makes his eyes roll back into his head and he takes his time, making sure she remembers this as something enjoyable but also because he wants her more than he can even articulate and he will regret this in the morning.

And so, for what feels like an eternity but cannot possibly be one, he is happier than he has ever been in his entire life because there are no rules and no questions, just skin against skin and a tiny smile on her lips.

In the morning, he feels guilty for accepting her comfort, and over breakfast tells her that he understands she feels the need to perform certain spousal acts but he does not wish to make her do anything she does not want and will not be upset in the future.

She purses her lips and nods in reply.

…

They are a handsome couple, so everyone says, and whatever stir of pride he feels is always, consistently, vanished when he remembers that though they are a couple, it is merely a number which means two objects placed together and implies nothing more than that.

…

The silences between them, once tense, have mellowed with each passing day. She has taken up gardening with a fervor that he never expected but nonetheless enjoys to watch. The plants flourish under her green hands and he buys her books about plants, seeds and gloves and anything else she could possibly want. She devours the books and discusses what she has learned over supper at night. It pleases him to know she is happy and content, even if he doesn't understand half of the Latin names she throws at him in her excitement.

He is happy that she is happy. He buys her fabrics and ribbons on his way home from work, and she places cut flowers and small cakes in his study to greet him. She becomes more animated, more comfortable in his presence than before, an accomplishment if there ever was one.

He still longs to hold her, kiss her, touch her, but he is still frightened she will turn away and if she did, that would be his undoing.

…

One night after dinner, they are seated in the library. He pours over books and maps, tracing routes with his finger, and she is reading. He doesn't notice her until she is by his side, the skirt of her dress brushing his leg. He looks up.

"Yes, Elizabeth?" he asks.

She does not respond, merely extends her hand towards him, brushes her fingers against his own.

"You have been helpful in satisfying my curiosities these past few months," she says. "Save one."

"I'm sorry, my dear," he tells her. "Please, tell me what it is."

She leans down and kisses him, leaning forward until she almost topples into his lap and he must reach out and catch her. She presses herself into this embrace, lips becoming more desperate and hands seeking out the skin beneath his shirt. Clothes disappear quickly soon after. He feels light-headed by this turn of events, by the active role she takes and the way she moans so loudly when he takes a nipple in his mouth. He aches with need for her, and when she reaches for his breeches he is lost to her, in her.

And so it goes for a week or so, Elizabeth's eager hands reaching out for him after dinner or waking him from his sleep. She goes so far as to actually corner him one Sunday, and they spend the rest of the day rolling in clean white sheets.

Despite the joy he takes in all of this behavior, he cannot help the lingering doubt that crowds into his mind without his consent. This sudden wanton behavior is something he never expected from Elizabeth and it puzzles him; there is always a calm before the storm, a moment to catch one's breath before the onslaught and_ this_ came with no warning signs.

It is enough to convince him that Elizabeth is thinking of others, pretending there are dark eyes instead of his green ones, olive skin to his fair and unevenly tanned flesh. That when he presses her into the mattress she is imaging Will's hands, or even Sparrow's, on her – indulging in fantasies because she knows how much and how deeply he loves her and would do anything for her and how she is an elixir, a tonic, a promise of something greater and better.

These thoughts leave a bitter taste in his mouth, despite how he tries to shake them away each time she touches him. They cling instead, their roots digging so deep for better purchase. It makes him feel pathetic, angry and ashamed for wanting and taking something he cannot ever have.

She kisses him one night in the library, and he responds before pushing her away. The more he touches her the more he hates himself and since he is all he has, he cannot allow that.

"No," he tells her gently.

"Is something wrong?" she asks, her touch gentle and delicate against his neck and he pulls away, walking across the room to gather his bearings.

"You," he says, grasping for some shred of dignity, "you do not think of me."

She starts, hands balling up into fists at her sides. "What could have ever convinced you of that?"

"Because you have no reason to think of me," he says quietly.

"But you're my husband," she protests and he laughs.

"We are married, Elizabeth," he tells her. "I control your purse, not your mind or heart. My domain is limited."

"You have claim over me," she says.

"I am not heartless, whatever you may think. I will not force blood from a stone, nor demand you to love me nearly as much as I love you." He takes a deep breath. "Goodnight. I will not see you in the morning."

He leaves the following day for a three month tour of duty, hoping that the clean sea air will remove some of this confusion and tension, but knowing it will not. He has been swept away in the wake of Elizabeth, and he is lost.

**  
**


	2. Chapter 2

**A Song for the Wretched and Wrecked, Part II**

It is sunny, as always, when she becomes a Commodore's wife. She wonders, as she steps out into the sun, if she had wanted the weather to echo whatever turbulence was rocking her own body – a tempest, perhaps, or even a small summer storm. But instead it is beautiful, there is a cool breeze blowing over her skin, and she is to be married in a few hours time.

She's nervous, because some part of her is not sure why she agreed to go through with this: she still feels something for Will, and nothing save admiration for Com – James, the man, who is about to become her spouse. The loss of Will is acute now, for she has had time to become used to it, and she almost expects to see him standing in the shadows of the church.

Instead, she sees blue coats and gold braid and a nervous smile on James' face.

…

Shortly after she accepted his proposal, he came to her house dressed modestly and without the white wig. He looked incredibly nervous and, for the first time she's known him, incredibly human.

"If we are to be married," he told her, "I think it best we learn more about each other."

"Such as?" she asked.

"I'd like it very much if you'd call me James," he said softly.

"Of course, James," she says.

Her servants told her how this sort of thing never really happens, that most women marry with little real knowledge of their husbands, most of it gleamed from letters and words spoken before chaperones. The first thing she learned about James Norrington – not Commodore, not Captain, just James - was what a good man he was, and how he had many admirable qualities, including setting his future wife at ease.

She learned his favorite poems, his favorite composers and dances. She learned how about his first trip at sea (he was twelve) and his favorite destination (a cove on the other side of the island that one can only reach by boat) and the worst experience he ever had (Portuguese slave traders, surprisingly, not pirates). She learned how different he was when not bound by the constraints of his uniform, how there was wit behind that smile and humour in his eyes.

And, one day, she learned the man sitting before her was indeed a man, and nothing else. It was nothing out of the ordinary, merely stretching her neck but when she focused her eyes on him, she was surprised. For a moment, there was a glimmer of something else in his eyes, something that marred his stoic air and unblemished façade. She couldn't name it if she tried, because it had many names but none she'd ever spoken (at least, not in front of him).

He recovered, quickly, and departed soon after, leaving her to consider for the first time what a man so proper could be capable of when left to his own, more instinctual devices.

…

After the ceremony, he takes her to the house that will be their home. It is a very fine house, not as luxurious as the house she is leaving but lovely, nonetheless. There is a garden and a wonderful library and the furniture is lovely. It is a fitting house for a Commodore and his new wife.

They walk side by side, not touching, and when he leaves her to unpack her trunks she is nervous, for she doesn't know what will be expected of her tonight, nor how she will respond to the kisses of someone she does not love. She is worried that mere affection will be enough to carry her through the night, and wonders if she may beg for a stay of execution. Her thoughts come to halt, however, when she finds him standing in her doorway, his eyes looking everywhere but at her.

She will admit that her husband cuts a handsome figure in his pristine uniform, and an even nicer one without it. She catches a glance of tanned skin at his neck and her eyes travel downwards to the tight fit of his breeches. She cannot deny that he is an attractive man, and has admitted to harboring a childish infatuation with him only a few years back (it seems at some moments a lifetime ago). At this very moment she is the envy of Port Royal, she knows, which is humorous considering she is feeling so very unlucky.

He asks if she is hungry, for there is some food in the kitchen if she wishes it. He asks her if she is tired, and if so he will leave her be. He seems so nervous standing there that her heart catches in her throat and she inquires about the state of their bedrooms. She stumbles through some words about marriage and beds and she's so nervous her hands are shaking but then his are there to hold them still.

He's so close to her that she can feel the catch in his breathing when she steps forward, just a bit more, into his arms. He seems astonished that she lets him kiss her, and she is astonished that kissing him is not horrible – in fact, it's almost enjoyable.

Elizabeth is a curious girl. She has listened, these past few months, to stories about wedding nights and marriage and been unsatisfied with the conclusions she has reached: that it is a duty, it is uncomfortable and boring and best if it's hurried along to its natural conclusion. If this is true, then she is doomed to an unhappy life regardless of her attractive husband.

And then his lips are gone, and she blinks. His eyes are wide and his breathing as labored as her own and he takes her hand, walking backwards towards the larger of the two rooms. His eyes never leave hers and she trusts him – she's always trusted him, and always will.

She is shaking from nerves and fear and he does his best to calm her with words and reassuring touches. She kisses him in return. His mouth against her neck makes her arch towards him, and after that everything moves in slow motion as he touches her all over. It hurts when he enters her, but he tries to calm her with kisses along her forehead, her temples, her mouth. She assumes that this will become more enjoyable – she does not mind him touching her, because she sees how that can be nice– but he groans and stills, and then kisses her one last time before rolling away from her onto his back. She looks up at the ceiling, then at her new husband, and finds herself suddenly very tired. She does not want to think anymore.

When she wakes the next morning, his is gone and she is glad, but only for a minute. It allows her to slip into her dressing gown without feeling awkward at being undressed in front of him, and she appreciates this small kindness.

She finds him calmly drinking tea at the breakfast table. He looks tired, and there are dark circles under his eyes that were not there before.

…

The events of their wedding night are not repeated the next night, nor the one after that, and so on. She had assumed that since he requested they share their marriage bed, that he would also want her to share with him in other things. But instead he kisses her softly before turning onto his side, and going to sleep.

Sometimes, she wakes in the middle of the night to find herself on the far edge of the bed, startled by his presence as well as hers in the room. Other times, she'll wake to find herself curled up against him, or her arms thrown across his chest; sometimes it'll be him against her, and his hand resting on her stomach.

And then there are the nights with the nightmares, when she holds him as he moans and thrashes, shaking from fear herself. She presses kisses to his fevered brow and curses the devils that torment someone like James.

…

The first few months of wedded bliss pass far easier than she expected. They have established routines, and she is coming to realize a husband is a companion unlike any other she has ever had, and nothing like the books say. Yes, the books she bought told her that they would be needy, and require patience and discipline but James does not frown like her father would when she breaks something or breaches decorum by discusses unladylike topics in mixed company (she forgets, sometimes). He says nothing, smiles and encourages her interests, seems more interested in being her companion, not her father or master and she appreciates this.

The only time he seems remotely cross with her, however, is when she discusses pirates, or mentions Will, something she does not do often but his name does cross her lips from time to time. She watches him purse his lips and nod, his face growing drawn and pale and she wonders why he worries so, for she is his now. She hardly ever thinks of Will anymore, which surprises her but not so much anymore because she has James to think of.

…

She likes nothing more than to see him relaxed, in the evening before bed when he wears nothing more than breeches and a shirt, open at the neck, his hair freed from the confines of that wretched wig. It makes him more human, in many ways, and she feels more comfortable around James as opposed to the Commodore.

The Commodore, she is coming to realize, is merely one extreme of his personality. The other side retains some characteristics – he hides his feelings from most everyone, including her – but is more welcoming and, she is coming to find, lovable. He is an affectionate husband, bringing her presents and indulging her whims. She finds that with every day she opens to him more, much like the flowers in her garden opening to the sun (if there is a sun in her world, then it is definitely James). It is not so horrible being married to him after all.

It is not hard to like James, and she does what she can to make him smile. She instructs the cooks to make him the sweets that she cannot stand but which he enjoys so much. She doesn't mind tending house – she thought she would loathe it a great deal more than she does – but the little things, the moments of intimacy she shares with him make her revel in this silly domesticity.

"Elizabeth."

He has caught her staring at him, and she blushes.

"I am sorry – I was distracted."

He says nothing, smiles that crooked smile of his that she admires, and says "Perhaps it is time for us to retire, then?"

She nods in response.

She wonders why he doesn't reach for her in the middle of the night, or ever. He seems to keep her at arms length, treating her with the proper respect that a lady deserves.

When he does touch her, she remembers their first night and how he made her feel when his hands moved across her body. She had felt nervous, silly, and awkward, yet when he touches her now she remembers none of that.

Instead, she feels everything rushing towards her stomach, a jolt of something like excitement, and a slow throb that stays with her long after his hand leaves hers.

…

There is a party, with dancing and men in fine uniforms and ladies in expensive dresses. The dress James buys her, newly arrived from England, is lovelier than anything she has ever seen before, but far lovelier is the small smile on his face when she descends the stairs. He cannot take his eyes off her all evening, and her body hums with excitement and when they arrive home he kisses her with abandon, pressing against her and drawing the air from her lungs before pulling away and leaving her. He storms off to the parlor and she hears the door slam, followed by the shatter of glass and she cannot breathe from all the confusion.

She wonders why he will not touch her like a husband touches a wife and the mere thought makes her ache.

He tells her the next morning that he does not want anything from her, but his eyes speak the words he cannot say: that he does not expect her to ever desire or want him as much as he does her. It's often in his eyes, and every time it breaks her heart into millions of tiny pieces, because sometimes she _does_ want him and so that night, she cannot help but reach for him, wanting things she can't even name.

She is grateful when he kisses her back.

Their first coupling was _nothing _ like this – the feel of his skin, warm against hers, makes her want to press her body close against his and crawl into his skin. She cannot help but moan when he touches her and this is so much better, full of desire and perhaps even love.

She has been coming to love him, slowly and surely. She loves the way he smiles and the gentle tone of voice when they are alone, conversing at dinner or the library. She loves the way she feels around him, the intimacy they are now sharing which has grown over these past months and which, at this very moment, makes her dizzy.

The next morning, he reiterates that she not feel obligated. She wonders if he really does love her and, if he does, what could possibly make him so terrified of her.

…

Now that she has tasted a glimpse of what married life can offer beyond companionship and household duties, she desires more. When she finally works up the nerve to address the subject on her own, she is not disappointed with the results.

She enjoys how afterwards, they lie next to each other sharing kisses and gentle caresses. His guard is always down and her heart sings with the small smiles he gives her, the words he says while their breathing returns to normal.

"You," he tells her one day, "are my Achilles heel."

"I am your downfall?" she asks jokingly, rolling over to lie on his chest.

"You," he says, "are my one weakness. I cannot deny you anything."

"And here I thought you much preferred your trifles to me," she jokes, only to find herself once again in his arms as he kisses her laughter away.

But there is a darkness in his eyes which frightens her. It lingers in his eyes when they are together and grows when they are apart until one day, it finally consumes him.

He accuses her of thinking of others, though it takes her more than a moment to understand what he could possibly mean. She has never thought of anyone besides him – in fact, cannot get the thought of him out of her head – and this accusation confuses her until she realizes that, despite all of this, he still does not believe she has come to love him.

"You have claim over me," she tells him, hoping he can tell the depth of her feeling in those words. i You have claim /i -

_I am not heartless, whatever you may think. I will not force blood from a stone, nor demand you to love me nearly as much as I love you. Goodnight. I will not see you in the morning. _

He leaves, and she feels so lost and alone. She does not sleep that night, instead cries into her pillow wondering what she could have possibly done wrong.

…

Three months without him and she is lost. She cannot talk to the maids, because then they will gossip. She cannot ask her father, because he will not understand. She has no one, and so she is alone.

Prior to her marriage, she read as much literature on the proper duties of a wife that Port Royal offered. She combs through their bent pages now, hoping for the solution to her problem but there is nothing to tell her what to do. They tell her how to dress, how to act, how to be a dutiful wife but they do not tell her what love is, nor if this feeling inside of her could be love.

She turns to other sources: poets and playwrights and authors but none of them adequately describe up what she thinks. Their words are too strong and yet too hollow to explain the feelings coursing through her. Love is not rough, nor does it prick or act in a boisterous manner – at least, not _this _love, not _James_.

Perhaps she has not found the right words. She fears she never will.

…

She writes him letters every day, telling him how she misses him and detailing the daily trials and tribulations of the household. Some days they are one page length, others they span several until she runs out of ink or parchment or both. She always closes them with declarations of love and affection, sometimes writing what she thinks and other times (depending on how trying her day was) leaving them short but attempting to be meaningful nonetheless. She seals them and places them in his desk drawer. She will remove them before he returns but for now, she enjoys pretending he has read them and knows.

…

Then a ship arrives in the harbor, his ship, and he is i home /i , in their bedroom, slipping his coat off and shirt and folding them up neatly on the chair in the corner. She has never been happier in her life.

She sits up in bed, watching him because she has missed him more desperately than she can possibly say. Her fingers ache to touch his forehead, his mouth, his shoulders, to make sure that he is real. She wants nothing more than to hold and be held, to feel his heartbeat and to know that he is home and with her.

But then, he opens the door and leaves the room. She is out of bed in an instant, following him down the hallway until she catches him at the top of the stairs.

"James," she says softly. He turns to her, looking very tired.

"Elizabeth," he says quietly. "You should be sleeping."

"As should you," she tells him.

"In due time," he admits, taking a step down the stairs.

"No," she says. "In your own bed. With your wife. Not in the library or anywhere else."

His response – "Elizabeth" is a sigh, and he does not look at her. She reaches out to touch him, terrified he will pull away. The words he spoke before he left echoes in her ears, and she wants to tell him that she loves him, that only he possesses her heart, and yet she does not know how. She does not think that kisses or touches will do anything to convince him, nor will pleading, so she steps forward and leans her head against his chest, arms encircling his torso. She breathes in the scent of him, which makes her pulse quicken and her head spin.

"I've missed you," she says, "so much-" hearing her voice catch and there are tears in the corners of her eyes.

He holds her to him, pressing his lips against her hair. He does not say anything, just holds her.

"I have some business to attend to," he tells her. "I will be up shortly."

She pulls herself from his arms and walks, alone, to their bedroom. His footsteps recede down the stairs.

He does not come to bed, and when she wakes she is cold. It is Sunday, and she can hear the church bells and her maid brings her tea. She does not see James until they must leave for service.

He waits for her at the bottom of the stairs, looking very tired and she bites her lip to keep from saying anything. He looks out the window on the way to church, and says, with a small smile, "It is lovely to be home."

"On land, you mean," she teases with a smile and he's caught off guard.

"Yes," he concedes. "Home."

It is nice to sit with him in their pew, even if the back is too straight and uncomfortable and the sermon about husband and wives makes her blush. Members of the congregation stop to ask him about the voyage on their way out, and she smiles while he politely answers all their questions. Their carriage arrives, and as they make their way towards it, he bends his head towards her ear and tells her "I read your letters last night."

She stops, startled, and he helps her up and into the dark space. She had forgotten to move them before he returned. She had not meant for him to find them -

He is looking at her calmly. "I'm sorry, they were –"

"No," she says. "I'm glad you read them."

"Did you – " he starts, looking away from her and she knows. She knows and she nods.

"Every last word."

He reaches for her hand, and she thinks of how they seem to fit together so well.

"When we return to the house," he says, "I have something for you. A gift I found at a port of call. And then, perhaps you will allow me to make amends for my rudeness last night…" he blushes, looks down and away and she brings his hand to her lips, kissing the knuckles. His eyes widen and they are green, oh so green.

"Of course," she says softly. The ache in her chest has gone away, now, and is filled with something else entirely which she knows, for sure, to be love.


End file.
